Dark house, by which once more I stand
  Here in the long unlovely street,
  Doors, where my heart was used to beat
So quickly, waiting for a hand,

A hand that can be clasp'd no more--
  Behold me, for I cannot sleep,
  And like a guilty thing I creep
At earliest morning to the door.

He is not here; but far away
  The noise of life begins again,
  And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain
On the bald street breaks the blank day.

bitten is the enemy
with fists of a smitten entity
it's a vision of my tendencies
a constriction of my identity

I play with snakes

slither into misery
hiss to me a mystery
fitting the skin of slippery
bitter is this venom's history

Sunday morning
all is peaceful and quiet
I was drinking coffee
while skimming the morning paper
Listening to the cars
roar in the distance
You came out of the bedroom
yawning, stretching
looking cute with your bed hair
Eyes squinting
Adjusting to the sunlight
You made your way to the kitchen
poured yourself a cup of coffee
and took a seat across from me
We just stared
Studying each other
Not a single word uttered
We sat still in silence
a comfortable one
Few minutes passed
You looked a way
licked your lips then smirked
Often
I daydream about
doing a lot of things to you
I wonder
Are you thinking
the same way I do?

MILD is the parting year, and sweet
   The odour of the falling spray;
Life passes on more rudely fleet,
   And balmless is its closing day.

I wait its close, I court its gloom,
   But mourn that never must there fall
Or on my breast or on my tomb
   The tear that would have soothed it all.

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.

The sea was sapphire coloured, and the sky
Burned like a heated opal through the air;
We hoisted sail; the wind was blowing fair
For the blue lands that to the eastward lie.
From the steep prow I marked with quickening eye
Zakynthos, every olive grove and creek,
Ithaca’s cliff, Lycaon’s snowy peak,
And all the flower-strewn hills of Arcady.
The flapping of the sail against the mast,
The ripple of the water on the side,
The ripple of girls’ laughter at the stern,
The only sounds:—when ‘gan the West to burn,
And a red sun upon the seas to ride,
I stood upon the soil of Greece at last!

2 am is for the poets who
can't sleep because their
minds are alive with words
for someone who's not there.

For the alcoholics drinking
themselves into amnesia to
forget someone who left.

2 am is not for the lovers
asleep in each other's arms.

It is for the lonely, the ones
who are inlove with the
loved but are not loved in
return.